Los Angeles Six thousand miles from Venice, a young Californian woman sleeps deeply in a hospital bed identical to Tom's.
Cristiana Affonso is lucky to be alive.
The doctors say she bled so heavily during the operation they almost lost her.
The girl's mother, Gillian, is at her bedside. She holds her teenager's hand and wipes strands of brittle hair from her troubled face.
Poor girl has had to put up with so much. And when she wakes, a whole world of new troubles awaits her.
The newborn in the glass crib next to Gillian moves his tiny arms; a nervous twitch, the sort of shake that prompts old folk to joke that someone walked on your grave.
Gillian Affonso lets go of her daughter's fingers and leaves her grandchild to twitch in his sleep. She's going to find the hospital chapel. Somewhere she can kneel and pray. Ask for guidance.
Before she leaves the bedside, she reaches around the back of her neck and unclips a gold cross given to her at her own First Communion. She puts it around her daughter's neck and kisses her. She hopes it'll protect her for the rest of her life.
She looks back as she reaches the door to the hospital corridor. It's strange that the baby hasn't cried. The doctors noticed that too. All babies cry. But apparently not this one. He entered the world without so much as a mutter. His eyes wide and confident. Like he's been through it all before.
There are other strange things as well.
Grandma Affonso doesn't want to pick her grandson up. She feels no instinctive urge to cradle him, love him or kiss him. It makes her feel guilty. Not only guilty – slightly afraid.
Maybe it's because the birth was so traumatic.
Maybe it's because she's frightened of hurting him.
No – that's not it.
Deep down she knows the real reason. It's because her grandchild is the son of the man who raped her daughter.
The man a priest killed in an alley in Compton, almost nine months ago.